Calculation
by Polly Lynn
Summary: "Castle sleeps like the dead. When he can sleep. And when he's writing—really writing—nothing short of a nuclear explosion can distract him until he's finished. Unless it's a text from Beckett: Time Out." A sequel to TARDIS not a crossover .


Title: Calculation

Rating: T (to be safe)

WC: ~3700

Spoilers: None, really

A/N: I guess this is in the "TARDIS-verse," too. (Not any kind of crossover, despite that title.) It takes place after that story (and this will probably be confusing if you haven't read that one), but before "Circle 'Round the Sun." No real spoilers in this story, but it's probably set some time just before "Dial M for Mayor."

* * *

Castle sleeps like the dead. (When he _can_ sleep.) And when he's writing—really writing—nothing short of a nuclear explosion can distract him until he's finished.

Unless it's a text from Beckett: _Time Out. _

He has no idea how he knows it's a text from Beckett, but he does. He's slept through texts letting him know he's won the Nigerian lottery. Drunken texts from Patterson and Connelly. (They wanted him to settle a bet. They were both wrong.) But he's never slept through one of hers. Never missed one because he was too far gone in his own imagination.

Lately he's been sleeping better than he has in a long time. Tonight he'd fallen into bed, still half dressed and too tired to touch the plate Alexis had left warming in the oven when she realized he was too deep in _Frozen Heat_ to make it to the dinner table.

But now he's awake—instantly—and firing back a response: _Time Out_.

He scoops the nearest clothes off the floor and starts sorting by the sniff test. He's not entirely sure what day it is. Or what days it's between. (It's the middle of the night. It's always the middle of the night.)

He pulls out a dark sweatshirt he's pretty sure he wasn't wearing the last time he saw her. (It was at the precinct, right? He must have worn something that at least had buttons.) He pulls the sweatshirt over his head and goes on a hunt for jeans.

His phone lights up again: _351 Broadway._

Closer to his place than hers. Which probably means she's already there. Which means that _she's_ not sleeping well.

He slides on his jeans and taps out a message with one hand as he gathers wallet, keys, notepad with the other: _10 min_. _Food? _

He's halfway down the stairs when her reply comes in: _Corned beef hash you'd sell your first born for. _

He stumbles as he tries to compose his retort and manage the stairs at the same time. The phone pulses bright again before he can hit send: _Yes, even _your _first born. Big enough for 2 if you hurry. _

He's hurrying.

* * *

For her, there's a kind of algebra to it. It can't simply be a bad night. She's past the point where _every _night is a bad night, but they're bad more often than not, and it wouldn't be fair to him. (She's not sure it's fair to him anyway.)

And it's not _only_ about the bad nights. Some nights have been good—_so_ good that she didn't want to spend them alone, wired, alive, and _up_ as she felt. It's nothing monumental. A song that catches her ear. A lovely line of writing. An image that moves her. Something that wants to dart out of her, gather something from him, and bring it back. Tidy and satisfying and more.

Good, bad, or other, she agonizes over it. Every time. Seven simple letters. Sometimes an hour, sometimes two before her fingertip succumbs to gravity and hits send. Or furiously backspaces. Obliterates the impulse, or at least the evidence of it. She's not above locking her phone away for the night when the math doesn't work out.

It's not as though she's spending something. Depleting a scarce resource. He will always come. She knows that. She doesn't even have to tell herself anymore. She _knows_.

But shouldn't she be able to get through it alone? The good nights and bad? Burke thinks that's part of her problem: Her insistence on seeing connections—attachments, _relationships_—as weakness. Annoying as it is, he's not _always_ wrong. So she does the math.

The waitress comes by to refill her cup. She's startled when Kate speaks. Looks downright shocked when she asks for a second cup and orders food: The hash and a side of bacon, two plates.

She bites her lip and wonders how many times the two of them have met. (_Linda. Her name tag says Linda._) Whether the woman can count the words that Kate has spoken to her on one hand.

She comes here a lot, though it's dangerously close to his loft. A six-minute walk with the cold driving her. A six-minute walk and a decision she feels _so ready_ to make on the good nights. But the bad nights pile up around her and leave her standing on the corner staring up at the light burning in his office.

There's no light burning in his office now, because he's here.

He's _here._

* * *

He slides into the booth across from her.

She slides the cup and saucer across the table.

"Ninety-one," he says as he brings the cup to his lips with a sigh of deep gratitude.

"Ninety-two," she corrects him. She flicks her eyes to his for just a second and hides a Cheshire cat smile in her own cup.

Last time—10 days ago? 2 weeks?—she'd been too keyed up to sit, so they'd walked. Stupid: New York at 2 AM with the temperature hovering near zero and neither of them dressed for it. They'd walked.

* * *

_She's stuck on a memory. He's never seen the words come tumbling out of her like that outside a case. _

_Some fight she'd had with her mother when she was 16. She sets the stage with flair. Savagely pokes fun at her own teenage angst. Paints an absolute picture of her mother, backed into a corner and standing by rules and boundaries that had gotten ridiculous somewhere along the way. _

_She sets up the punchline so beautifully—so perfectly—it catches him completely off guard. He'd laughs. Long and loud enough to draw dirty looks from the few denizens sharing the street with them._

_She tugs on his sleeve to shush him. Holds on to it when he smiles down at her and tells her she's a born storyteller. Tugs on it again to pull him to her for a hard, swift kiss on the stoop outside her building. Lets it go, but not without trailing her fingers over it, beyond its edge to tease the back of his hand as she turns and pushes her way into the lobby. _

* * *

He misses a beat or two. Because of the memory. Because his heart speeds up. Because he's never exactly sure of the rules.

"No coffee last time, but I'm willing to count it toward your debt." He takes another swallow and adds slyly, "Probably equivalent."

"_More _than equivalent," she snaps in mock offense.

"More than equivalent," he agrees quietly as his heart stutters and quickens again. "So ninety-one."

It wasn't their first kiss. It was their sixth. Or fourth. Depending on whether you counted the undercover kisses. He counts the undercover kisses: His because he meant it. Hers because (based on evidence gathered subsequently) he thinks _she_ meant it, too. He means to find out for sure. Maybe tonight.

The waitress arrives and sets down a truly massive plate full of food. His stomach forcefully reminds him of its existence. He digs his fork in with one hand and snags a piece of bacon with the other.

She watches him thoughtfully for a minute. He's eating like he just remembered how. She's inclined to worry about the toll she takes on him. But as Burke frequently reminds her, it's not all about her.

"You've been writing?" she asks. She eases a modest amount from the common plate on to her own and pushes the rest toward him.

He nods eagerly. Gestures with the bacon and just stops himself from mumbling around a mouthful of food. He swallows hard and washes it down with another slug of coffee. "This is _so good_. I would _totally _sell Alexis for this."

She smiles wide. Nods and laughs as he tells her funny stories, harrowing stories. How he got himself out of a terrible blind alley with a stroke of genius. How he'd managed to work a detail he loved back into Nikki's story after he'd had to cut it because he'd been sure it wouldn't work.

She loves this side of him—the craftsman. The man who works hard and takes pride in the things he makes.

It's a gift. One that figures into the equation. Some nights—the worst of the bad nights— she's convinced it will never work. That they're too different. That he doesn't know her. That everything he thinks that he feels is fabricated. Made up. A story based on a lie he believes. That she shouldn't let him go on believing.

But when he talks like this—and he only ever talks like this in the middle of the night—she understands. He is _ruthlessly_ honest in his writing. Exacting and faithful and completely unwilling to let a moment stand if he hasn't earned it.

She's smiling that inward-turning smile and listening more to his voice than his words when he pushes the plate away, looking slightly aghast.

"Oh my God. I ate . . . did you get _any _of that, Beckett?"

She laughs, "I had plenty, Castle. Alexis isn't feeding you anymore? Maybe you _should _sell her."

"My dutiful daughter left me a plate. I was just so _wiped_ when I finished that story arc, I fell directly into the sleep of the dead."

He watches her knuckles go white around the coffee cup and wants to kick himself.

"Castle, I'm sorry, it's late." She shifts in her seat, looking around for the waitress. "You must be exhausted. I should let you go."

He reaches for her sleeve and tugs. "No, Kate. You shouldn't."

They're still sitting there, staring across the table at each other, his hand covering hers, when the waitress appears with pad in hand.

"Ready for the check?"

"No," he says quickly. "A warm up, please."

Kate looks at him for a beat, then two. "Yeah. A warm up."

* * *

"So," he says a little too casually. A little forced. "Topic?"

Thankfully, she smiles. Falls back with him into the moments they string together outside of time.

"I thought _you_ were the topic."

He shakes his head, seriously. "Not the rules: You sent up the bat signal. You pick the topic."

"And what if I pick _you_?" She's blushing before the words finish leaving her mouth.

"What if you did?" he murmurs and even though she's staring intently at the cream swirling in her coffee, she can feel his gaze on her.

Her cheeks are absolutely on fire. He wants to trace the line of beautiful color with his fingertips. But some unerring instinct tells him it would be going too far. Here at least. He gets a hold of himself and takes mercy on her.

"If you _did_ pick me, Beckett . . . as a topic . . ." he pauses, just barely, and watches the tint in her cheeks go a shade deeper. (Mercy is one thing. He's not a saint.) "No one could fault your taste. But it would still be cheating."

"Cheating." She narrows her eyes, somewhere between furiously embarrassed and grateful that one of them knows how to do this. How to navigate this. "There's cheating? It's _possible_ to cheat in Time Out?"

He stares a moment. Treats her to a pitying look. "Of _course_ it's possible to cheat. What kind of a terrible game doesn't leave room for cheating?"

"You _would _feel that way, wouldn't you Castle?" She settles her chin in one hand and leans toward him. Oh, she's _enjoying_ this.

"I'm a creative type," he admits. "There has to be room for interpretation. Subtext." He lobs it out there. Smiles when the blush reappears. "But I'm not the one working it right now."

"Working it? I'm _working _it?"

"Oh, you're always working it, Beckett." He allows himself the hint of a leer.

She tips her head back and laughs loud enough that the waitress's head swivels toward them. She buries an indelicate snort in her coffee cup.

He prods the back of her hand with his spoon. "Topic, Beckett. Or . . . ." He pretends to think about it, but he knows exactly where he's going with this.

"Or?" She watches him, eager for the swerve she knows he's planning. Not caring if he sees. She wants him to know she wants this. The playfulness. The seriousness. That she can't promise to follow where he goes, but she'll try. She'll always try.

"Or _questions_." His voice is conspiratorial. Exaggerated. It's a gamble and he knows it. He has to keep it light. Show her where the exits are.

"Questions . . . ." She's teetering on the brink between smiling and bolting.

He wants to tip her his way. Gather her to him and not let go. But that's not how this works. He's never exactly sure of the rules, but he's sure of this.

"Questions. Or _a_ question, if you're scared." He's teasing. He's not teasing. "I get to ask. You have to answer. Truthfully."

She chews on the inside of her lip for a long moment. He's sure he's screwed it all up. That this is the last time she'll be with him like this. He'd give anything to go 30 seconds back in time.

She surprises him. She never stops surprising him.

"Do _I _get to ask a question?" It's her interrogation face. Oh, he'd tell her _anything_. Everything.

"Of course," he says quickly. "Only fair. In fact, you can go first."

She's tearing her napkin into neat, precise strips, each one exactly as wide as the last. It's the equivalent of a full-on screaming freak out in any other woman, but she's staying put.

She visualizes her breath coming in, going out. The way Burke taught her. It helps right up until the moment she meets his eyes and then they're both a different kind of breathless.

"Last time." It feels like she's dragging the words up from the bottom of the ocean, but she's started now and damned if she won't finish. "No, not last time. Two times ago. The last time with coffee . . ."

He can't believe it. He's fixated on her mouth. The movement of her lips. He's never exactly sure of the rules. He's absolutely sure she's rewriting them. Right now.

The number is the only thing—the _only_ thing—they carry with them. Every time he leaves her, she leaves him, it's like a story ending. The cover closes, absolutely, and they slide the story on to the shelf next to the last one. Eight of them now. Nine tonight. Because the math is more complicated than he realizes.

"Ninety-three," he says. Because she's not saying anything and she has to finish. He needs her to finish.

"Ninety-three," she nods. She's not looking at him. And then she is. "You kissed me."

He wants to laugh, but reins it in. Self-control. There's a first time for everything. He _kissed _her? That's the understatement of the year. Of almost four years.

* * *

_She might have a thing about his sleeve. Not that he minds, though she's hard on the buttons, toggles, velcro. Whatever she can worry at and tug. Something to fiddle with when she's pointedly _not_ holding his hand. _

_She's so open tonight. No pretense when she asks him for a story. "Nonfiction," she says with mock sternness. Then adds softly, "Something about Martha." _

_He rounds on her, surprised. He wishes he could enjoy it—the openness—but it comes at the price of such profound sadness. It's a bad night. She'd admitted as much as she pushed his coffee across the table to him. That was earlier. A lot earlier. Now they're walking in no particular direction other than away from the corner where they part ways. _

"_And be nice," she warns, underscoring the point with a particularly firm tug. "She's your mother." _

_The button comes away in her hand. He laughs and closes her fingers around it, bumping her shoulder to show it's ok. She ducks her head in embarrassment anyway. And pockets the button. _

_His breath catches for an instant, then he recovers. "How about the story of a _spectacular_ wardrobe malfunction?" _

_She pounds him on the arm. Lets her fingers snag his sleeve again, "Castle, I said be _nice."

"_Fear not, it's a story of the triumph of grace and professionalism. With hardly any nipple at all." _

_She laughs in all the right places. Lets her eyes go wide in the dramatic moments. And he's so grateful that she lets him take some of the sadness away, at least for a while. _

_He wonders if she knows how they ended up on her doorstep. She must realize. She must have let him do it. Turn them this way and that. Winding farther and farther from his loft so they only logical path back would be past her building. She _must_ know. _

_She has one hand on the door to her lobby, and her last finger is about to drop away from his sleeve. _

"_Let me walk you up," he says in a rush. _

"_Ok." She's not looking at him, but she doesn't hesitate either. _

_Without a word, they both turn away from the elevator and toward the stairs. She still has him by the sleeve. _The buddy system is the best,_ he thinks with a slightly hysterical laugh. _

_She hears him, but doesn't stop. Keeps her back to him and puts on speed as she pulls him down the hall to her door. Stops. Whips around and he has no choice but to crash into her. She knows that. She engineered it, but it's still shocking to find her back against the door, his hands tugging down the zipper of her jacket, sliding up her sides. And him kissing her, kissing her, kissing her. _

_She still has him by the sleeve when he pulls a fraction of an inch back. Slides his free hand into her hair and presses her cheek against his just for a second. Then he gently pries her fingers from it. Brings them to his lips and whispers, "Time out over. Goodnight, Kate." _

_He goes. _

* * *

"I kissed you." He hopes he sounds neutral. Matter of fact. But his blood is pounding in his ears.

She can't remember _ever_ being this nervous before, but she asks anyway. "Why?"

His eyebrow shoots up and he fixes her with a look that clearly says, "Who _is _this madwoman?"

And just like that, her nerves are gone. "I mean why then?"

He wants to tell her that the remarkable thing is he isn't kissing her all the time. _All _the time. It hovers on the tip of his tongue, but he knows it's too far. He takes a breath and limits himself to a single word, "Punctuation."

* * *

They settle the check. He insists on paying. She insists that they're still at ninety-two in that case. He flashes her a hot look and tells her not to make him argue they're really at something like eighty if they're properly weighting things.

She says, "Oh," and closes her mouth.

It makes no sense for him to walk her home. He's worried that's why she chose the place. That she'd carefully measured out what she could give and she's all out now. Tries to tell himself that the extraordinary risks she's taken tonight are enough for now.

And then she asks. With a tug on his sleeve, of course. They turn their backs to his way home.

She doesn't stop on the street in front of her building. Just awkwardly fishes out her keys with one hand and leads him up the stairs again. Slow and deliberate this time.

She leans on one side of the door frame. He leans on the other. He's not giving up on reducing the deficit, but the time is not quite right yet. He doesn't know how he knows it, but he's sure.

She's still mulling it over. His answer. He knows she's close and he wants to wait.

Her face lights up and it's almost worth it, a moment spent not kissing her. Almost worth it.

"The question mark!" she's absolutely pleased with herself, and it is thoroughly adorable. " 'Time Out.' Not 'Time Out?' "

He nods. He doesn't think he could form a word right now if his life depended on it.

"But how did . . . ." Seems he's not the only one struggling with words right now. He's glad. "What if it was just a mistake, Castle?"

"Not a mistake." He shakes his head. "I don't pretend to know how this works. I'm just glad—_always_ glad—and I think . . . I think you think about it a lot before you . . . before you ask. And I think you meant _not _to ask that night. I think you meant to _say." _

"I think so, too," she says after a minute. Nods hard to confirm it. Then smiles up at him. "But you haven't."

"Haven't?" He's having serious focus issues. At least when it comes to words.

"I owe you an answer, Castle." She pulls on his sleeve to get his attention. "You owe me a question."

"A question," he repeats absently as he leans in. Oh, he'd like to kiss her like he did that night. Ninety-three. Hard. Demanding. A demonstration to them both. But he knows the answer is more important, so he's gentle. Limits himself to shaking her hand off his sleeve and sliding his fingers through hers. Breaks it off long before he wants to. Before she wants to.

"A question," he says again. Waits for her eyes to focus. Loves how long it takes. "How many times have we kissed?"

"Counting this one?"

"Unless you don't think it counts." He tries for a mock hurt tone, but his smile gives him away. Gives everything away.

"Instances or kisses?" She furrows her brow and he wants to kiss it, but doesn't. Not fair muddying the waters now.

"Instances."

"Seven," she says. No doubt. No hesitation. She raises up on her toes and makes it eight.

"Sweet," he breathes against her lips.


End file.
